Crowds are everywhere. Bloggers, reporters, tourists, theatergoers, and anyone with a phone—which is everyone—can snap our photo.

  I turn to my fake date. “Your place or mine?”

  When our eyes lock, heat flares between us. “Yours. I’ll get a Lyft.”

  As he orders the car, my mind races ahead fifteen minutes. I have no idea what will happen when he walks through the door of my home, but I know what I want.

  While he’s on his phone, he drapes his arm around my shoulder, and we head to Seventh Avenue for the pickup. It’ll take forever for any vehicle to turn onto Forty-Fourth Street on a show night. We barely make it past Sardi’s when a gorgeous—by all empirical standards—man overtakes us, then stops one foot away and does a double-take.

  “Hey—” The square-jawed Adonis of a movie star swings his gaze from TJ to me. “Wait. You two?”

  TJ frowns for a second, and something like guilt flickers in his eyes. “Yeah. We are,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

  Almost like he’s giving a demonstration for a how-to video on touching your partner in public on a busy street. “Christian Laird, this is Jude Fox. Jude’s my guy,” TJ says, and he sounds legit enough for most people. But not me. I can hear a touch of awkwardness in his tone.

  But once again, it’s showtime. “Nice to meet you, Christian. I’m a huge fan.” I extend a hand, but Christian waves it off, holding his arms open wide.

  “You! You are fucking amazing, Jude,” the man says, then yanks me in for a hug.

  Oh. Well. I wasn’t expecting that. “Thanks,” I say.

  When we separate, Christian parks a big hand on my shoulder. “Your movie was incredible. And now you’re doing a TV show? Who do I have to beg to get a role on your new show?”

  I laugh rather than respond. I practically begged to work with him nearly a year ago, so I’m not sure what to do with his praise now. But is that why I feel off? Or is it because I don’t have a bloody clue what role Christian now plays in TJ’s life? They’re clearly on a first-name basis, but TJ hasn’t once mentioned him to me in the last few days. Although I guess we’ve been so caught up in getting our lies right, we haven’t had time to dwell on much else—including the past.

  Christian turns to TJ. “And what the hell? Are we ever, ever, going to start working on your project?”

  TJ sighs but smiles as he gazes heavenward. “I wish I knew.”

  “It’s ridic. I am dying to get to work on Jackson.” Then, Christian turns to me. “The illustrator character.”

  “Right,” I say, though I don’t know anything about the characters in that book. Or even their names till now. TJ always told me to stay away from it. The warning worked for me—I had no interest in reading the story Flynn inspired.

  “Anyway, I was calling it Top-Notch Detour when we worked out last week,” Christian says, gesturing to TJ.

  What? They’re gym buddies? That’s kind of romantic because workout dates are a thing.

  Settle down. TJ’s not fake dating you and real dating someone else. He’s not like that.

  Still, the fact that I don’t know TJ’s relationship status with this A-list gay actor bothers me. A lot.

  But I cover it up with a smile. “Yeah, it’s a rom-comedy of errors,” I say, grateful I read that Hollywood Scoop piece to get up to speed.

  Christian laughs. “Sure is, but we’ll get there someday,” he says, all sweet and supportive as if they give each other pep talks all the time.

  Maybe right after they get sweaty with each other.

  “Yes, Top-Notch Backburner will have its time in the sun,” TJ says, and ouch. That last one stings me. That’s what happened to my project with Laird when Webflix bought Top-Notch Boyfriend.

  But then, everything worked out for me, didn’t it? Webflix passing me over gave me the freedom to say yes to If Found, Please Return. If I’d been too busy with the project Webflix delayed, I would have missed the biggest role of my life.

  “Anyway, wasn’t the musical fantastic?” Christian asks, gesturing to the theater. “Let’s all catch up sometime. Grab a drink or a bite to eat. Cool, TJ?”

  “Yeah, definitely,” my date says.

  Christian drops a kiss to TJ’s cheek. Jealousy flares in me. That’s my job. What the hell are they to each other? Am I wrong about TJ? Maybe they’re not dating now, but did they in the last ten months?

  The actor leans in and brushes a kiss on my cheek. “So great meeting you, Jude,” he says, then points to both of us. “Drinks. Let’s make it happen.”

  Christian takes off, and as I figure out what to say to TJ, he’s waggling his phone. “The driver just messaged. He’s waiting for us.”

  We power walk to a waiting black SUV, then slide into the back. A million questions tap on my brain, but when the Lyft driver checks us out a few times in the rearview mirror, I groan privately. Now is not the time to ask anything.

  I look at TJ and tip my forehead to the front seat. He nods in understanding then takes my hand again.

  We’re quiet as the car shoots us to the Village, but my brain is noisy.

  Is he holding my hand for the driver or himself? Did he date Christian Laird? Did he see anyone else in the last ten months? Mostly, how does he feel about me now?

  I’m tired of not knowing. Ten months ago, I’d have let these questions fester. But look how that ended. Tonight, I need to ask him.

  When we reach my building, I wonder something else. Why was he adamant we come here instead of his place?

  As we head upstairs, I practice the words in my head to ask calmly, the opposite of how I was in Venice.

  But once we’re inside my home, I set my phone on the counter, and it blinks with a text from William.

  The words flash on my screen for both of us to see.

  Thanks again for talking earlier.

  TJ arches a brow and gives me a scathing look. This is the problem with friction. It’s good in the bedroom, but it’s bad out of it.

  And it turns out when we’re bad, we’re quite horrid.

  13

  Twenty Questions About Other Men

  TJ

  * * *

  I really should keep my cool.

  After that kiss in the limo yesterday, after the theater, after the plans I had to get to know him again tonight, I have to chill out.

  I do my best to ignore that blinking note. But that might require some liquor. Tearing my gaze away from the evidence of other men on his phone, I scan his living room, hunting for a liquor cart. A decanter. A bottle of anything other than wine.

  “Got anything strong here?” I ask since I’m going to need 500-proof to get through the next hour with the man I can’t get over.

  Wait.

  How long do I have to stay here to throw reporters off the scent of this deception?

  Jude loosens the top button on his shirt. “Does tequila count? If not, I have whiskey. Plenty of wine, but that’s not going to meet your requirements,” he says, pointing to a liquor tray at the edge of the kitchen counter.

  I stalk into the kitchen, grab the Jose Cuervo. “Shot glasses?”

  His shoes click on the hardwood. He opens a cupboard, grabs two glasses, and sets them on the counter with a loud clink. “Shockingly, I need one too,” he says, his voice tight—a clear reminder he’s not in the mood for more of my issues.

  It’s a reminder, too, that I need to keep my shit together. I’ve got to get a handle on this jealousy. But then, jealousy is only the start of my out-of-control emotions when it comes to Jude. I pour two shots. “How long do you think we need to wait it out?”

  “Dunno. It’s not like there’s paparazzi on the street,” he says, waving airily at the window like this is all so easy for him when it’s impossibly hard for me. “But someone could see if you go, I suppose. Desmond or Piper or one of Trish’s scouts or someone else.”

  “Exactly,” I say, then thrust the glass toward him.

  Neither one of us bothers with a toast. We drink. That is all.

  Jude lets out a harsh breath like the tequila burns his throat. Good. I hope it did. Burned me too, like this whole night, which is eating me alive. I can’t believe I let myself think the two of us were getting close again.

  Like Helen once said—a man like Jude isn’t single for long. I lost him; William got him. Case closed.

  But if so, what was with the pep talk in the theater? He was so sweet. So Jude, my roommate. So Jude, the guy who’s cheeky and real and makes me want to write love stories.

  Though Jude, the friend, would be supportive too.

  So what the hell are we doing? Are we just friends?

  I have to push through. I have to ask. But maybe one more shot first. I grab the bottle, pour another. He shoves his glass at me. I pour one for him too.

  He slams his down, hits the glass hard on the counter. “TJ?” His voice is tense with checked restraint.

  I serve his name back the same way. “Jude?”

  He draws a big breath as if he needs to steady himself to say something hard. “Who’s Christian to you?”

  At last, we’re getting somewhere.

  I had a feeling he’d ask. I lift my chin because I have nothing to apologize for. “A work friend. That is all. And if you want to play Twenty Questions About Other Men, here’s my first and only one. What really happened with William?”

  “Nothing,” he bites out, crunching on that word, a cloud of irritation surrounding him. “I’ve said it a million times.”

  “Then why the hell is he thanking you for talking to him?” I ask, this close to shouting. I wanted to stay cool, but it’s so hard with the emotions ripping through me like a cyclone. “Dude, just say you’re involved with him,” I continue, and I’m begging because I need the answer. “I get it. You’ve moved on. It’d be stupid for me to think you hadn’t. But stop fucking with my head and telling me you weren’t involved.”

  My voice is so much wobblier than I want it to be. I can’t hide how I feel around him. When I’m with Jude my pulse spikes, my heart hammers. For almost a year, I’ve been empty, out of gas, and stalled on the road. The only way to start my engine again is if I can put Jude and me to rest. “I can handle it,” I continue, gently imploring him this time to put me out of my misery. “I can fucking handle it if you were with him. I’m not delicate.”

  That’s not true. He could crush me. But still, I need the answer, and I shut up and wait for him to give it to me.

  He’s two feet away, his arms crossed, his jaw set hard. Annoyance flashes in his eyes, then fades as he lets out a long, frustrated breath, shaking his head. “But I already told you I wasn’t. Why don’t you trust me?”

  Damn him. Why won’t he let me move on?

  “Those pictures,” I mutter, but as soon as I say that, I’m aware of how silly it sounds. We’re putting on a show. We’re taking photos of our fake relationships. Photos can be manipulated. Quickly, I issue a correction. “Actually, it’s not the pictures. It’s that . . .” I pause, taking a second to say the hardest thing I’ve said to him in a long time. “I don’t want to be made a fool. And those pictures make me feel foolish when I look at them.”

  I was already a fool for him. A fool in love, ready to ask him to go to Amsterdam with me, to come to see me in New York, to be mine. Only mine.

  Jude heaves a sigh. “Why do you look at them, then?”

  I shrug lightly, try to play it off. “I like to torture myself, it seems.”

  “The pictures aren’t bad coffee. It’s not the same. Stop doing that and start believing me,” he says, stabbing his finger against the counter to make his point. “We’re stuck in this thing. It goes better when we get along. And I told you . . . William is a friend. He’s my friend. He’s your friend. And you saw him in LA. He’s struggling. You should know that as well as anyone. We took him to his house when he was pissed.”

  That night is bright and clear in my mind. “Yeah, I remember,” I say, but I’m still chewing on the words we’re stuck in this thing and how they make me feel a little shitty. After a moment, Jude adds, “And I could ask you the same. What’s really the deal with Christian? He’s awfully chummy. You work out together? Is that all?”

  I laugh without humor. “You seriously think there’s something between Christian Laird and me?”

  He doesn’t look amused. “Is there? You seemed a little awkward when you saw him,” Jude says, careful with each word, like he’s trying hard not to lash out like he did in the beach house.

  That’s a welcome change, and it gives me some peace of mind to answer with the full truth.

  “He’s just a friend. If you picked up on anything awkward, it’s that it bothers me to have to lie to the people in my life. I had to lie to my barber earlier in the week and that bugged me too. Christian is a work friend, and we’ve hit the gym a couple times, and I hate putting on this show for everyone when you and I aren’t really dating. We’re not really boyfriends,” I say.

  He nods resolutely. “We’re not.”

  On that pathetic note, I need another drink. I reach for the bottle, pour a third shot, but as I stare at the liquid, what’s the point? I don’t lift the glass. Turns out I don’t need any more liquid courage to say what’s on my mind. I’ve already served up my guts to Jude tonight. Might as well give him the rest of the truth. From my spot in the kitchen, I meet his gaze. “Besides, it’d be impossible for me to be with someone.”

  “Why?” Jude asks, desperate.

  “How do you not fucking know, Jude?” I snap. “How do you really not know?”

  He spreads out his arms. “What should I know?”

  “You said it in the car yesterday. My breath hitches when I’m near you. When you touch me, I shudder. You get close to me, and I’m fucking gone. You did a number on me, Jude Fox. I haven’t been with Christian or anyone.”

  There. I’ve spelled it out with indelible ink—I’m not over you.

  His eyes flicker with a sort of surreal delight. Then he grabs his phone, clicks on a text exchange, and thrusts it at me, showing me something he wrote to William.

  I’ll help find a center. Just say the word.

  My jaw drops. “What is this?”

  He sets down his phone, circles the counter, stalks into the kitchen. “This is why I was talking to William tonight. He called, and I care about him as a friend. When I was in LA recently, he was spiraling. I tried to help him by paying his minibar bill and getting him out of the hotel safely after he’d been asked to leave. I took him home, and I’ve been trying, fucking trying, to get him help. He kissed me on the cheek, and the press got the photo, and here I am, in the middle of this terrible press thing with this guy we both know who’s spiraling into addiction, and still I want to help him. He’s our friend, and I never was involved with him at all.”

  I’m a heel.

  I’ve officially overreacted.

  My heart lurches toward Jude. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I thought you were. I’m sorry I’ve been an ass about it,” I say, and I hope he believes me. “I’ve been such a wreck.”

  He drags a hand through his hair, tousling it. It’s a good look. Sexy and annoyed and devastating. “How could I be involved with him, TJ? How could I be involved with anyone? I was hung up on you.”

  What?

  There’s no way he said that. No way at all. “What do you mean?” I whisper, swallowing roughly, hope knotting my throat.

  From his spot a few feet away, he crosses his arms. “I was a mess about you, TJ. I haven’t been with anyone since we split.”

  Those words are my kindling. They fan all my flames. I dart out a hand, grab the open V of his shirt, yank the man close to me. “I’ve been completely fucked up over you.”

  Jude doesn’t smile.

  He doesn’t give me a come-hither look. He just hisses out, “Join the club.”

  So I do.

  14

  Don’t Take This the Wrong Way

  TJ

  * * *

  The second our lips touch, sparks fly everywhere, like a blowtorch. The air sizzles between us, crackling and snapping as I devour Jude’s mouth in the most intense, passionate kiss this city has ever known.

  It’s explosive, a collision of emotions, want, and pain. We pour nearly a year’s worth of anguish into each other. That’s a lot to ask of a kiss, but this one delivers.

  With every flick of my tongue, I try to repair the hurt. As I devour his mouth, I want to show Jude he’s the only guy I ever think of. Jude crushes his lips to mine, telling me things too—that he meant every word he said tonight.

  I finally, fucking finally, believe him about William.

  It’s not because of the texts he showed me.

  It’s not because of the things he said.

  It’s not even because of the way we slam into each other.

  It’s because I’m making a choice. Trust is a choice, and I choose to trust Jude. This is the only way to move on, and now we’re moving together with our bodies. I can’t get close enough to him, but I have to try. I grind my dick against his, our hard lengths rubbing through all our clothes.

  I’m so wired. Every nerve in my body is firing. And I don’t want to pump the brakes, but with my last ounce of willpower, I pause the kiss. I’m not done with my confessions. “I wanted to take you to Amsterdam with me,” I admit, gravel in my voice, almost like it hurts to say that.

  “I fucking wanted to go,” he says, his voice the same.

  “Dammit, Jude. I was going to ask you to meet me there. To spend the weekend with you. To do this,” I say, then press another hungry kiss to his lips. I’m making up for missing our European trip.

  He groans, letting his head fall back, inviting me to explore his jaw, his chin, his neck. “I’d have said yes,” he rasps out as I coast my mouth along his throat.

  His pulse throbs.

  For me.

  My entire body aches.